


A Crown of Broken Hearts

by Galadriel1010



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Extended Metaphors, Father-Daughter Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Other, Paragon Aeducan - Freeform, Platonic Relationships, Post-Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26339089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Anora, Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden navigate grief, sorrow and extended metaphors to do the best they can for their broken country.
Relationships: Female Aeducan/Alistair/Anora Mac Tir
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Press Start VI





	A Crown of Broken Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gamerfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamerfic/gifts).



Dark rumours of a struggle for power in the palace swirled through what was left of Ferelden’s nobility, whispers in darkened corners and mutterings over wine in every reputable tavern and some that were anything but every time the Landsmeet gathered. On the surface they maintained a united front, but behind the scenes…

Anora sighed. Three broken hearts leaning against each other to steady a broken country. By some miracle they hadn’t yet all keeled over at once yet, even though there were days when she couldn’t look at either of them and days when Alistair couldn’t look at her and days when the Hero couldn’t even look at the sky. They got by because they had to.

It wasn’t one of those days, thankfully. The hurt was tamped and the past left where it belonged, and they were all in the same place for at least the next few days. Ferelden needed them at their best, or at least their most functional, and today she would get that. They finished breakfast together and moved as one to their shared study, where the usual stack of paperwork awaited them.

Anora took the messages from the attendant and sat at her desk to begin sorting through them. The problem with being a popular and trusted ruler, or a group of three popular and trusted rulers, was apparently that no one could be bothered to solve their own problems. She skimmed through a request for their decree on a minor property dispute in the foothills of the Frostbacks and set it aside with pursed lips. “Do they realise that the country has just survived a Blight?”

“Are your people too demanding, my Queen?” Alistair took the letter from her with that boyish grin that was so familiar to her, and she was glad when he read through it and it turned to a sour look of frustration. “I see what you mean.”

“I think I’ll just give it to Bann… Whatever his name is. Simply because he hasn’t written to us in the last week.”

Lady Aeducan chuckled. “Not unreasonable. Has either of them offered to bribe you yet?”

Anora’s lips twitched. “No, but I expect that next week. Speaking of bribery, corruption and underhand dealings, though, there’s a letter from your brother.”

“Ancestors guide me,” she sighed, “What does he want this time?”

“Some sort of official state visit from their Paragon. Presumably for you to make more decisions that strengthen his hand.”

Alistair snorted. “Has he said when the assassination attempt will be? I do enjoy those.”

“No, but he’s said there will be a proving. That’s a tournament, isn’t it?” Anora checked the letter again. “A proving in your honour. Or someone’s honour.”

“Bhelen’s honour. He doesn’t care about anyone else’s.” Aeducan sighed. “That’s not quite fair. He doesn’t care about his own either, but he has to pretend he does.”

“We’re not going then?” Alistair asked.

“Of course I’m going,” she scoffed. “I care about my honour, even if he doesn’t. You needn’t though.”

Anora cut across them before an argument could start. “We shall all go. A formal state visit to our neighbours and allies, then there can be no risk of assassination. Or at least a significantly reduced risk of it.”

“I admire your optimism.” Aeducan smiled and held her hand out for the letter. “Thank you. I find I’m looking forwards to it more already. I’ll write to him and let him know that we will attend.”

Alistair leaned over her shoulder to read the letter. “Why out of the two of them did you end up stuck with Bhelen? Wait, I know the answer to that. He killed the other one.”

“The other one was worse. But he definitely wouldn’t have made me a Paragon, or demand that I attend all these ludicrous parties.” She huffed. “He doesn’t understand the Surface. Everything is just Topside as far as he’s concerned. Thankfully he cleared out most of the advisors who have a similarly narrow understanding of anything beyond the doors of Orzammar and has actually permitted some dwarves who have ventured past Gherlen’s Pass to return.”

“Like your friend Gorim.”

Aeducan’s face fell. Alistair couldn’t see it from where he was leaning over her shoulder, and even if he had he wouldn’t have understood. He had a very deliberate blind-spot on the subject, and a lack of tact to go with it.

Her eyes met Anora’s and managed a weak smile, which Anora returned as well as she could. “Yes, like Gorim and his wife. She was born in Denerim, she knows the Surface well.”

“Like that it takes more than a day for a message to reach Denerim from Orzammar?” Anora chuckled. “Your father never really understood that, did he?”

“Oh, he knew. Just assumed it would move out of his way for him like everything else did.”

Anora let out a sigh and was glad when her breath didn’t catch at all. “That sounds familiar.” She felt the ghost leaning over her shoulder yet again and her eyes slid to Alistair. He was looking at her with that baffled expression that helped her to push past her hurt to reach his. “Maric was the same. Not the same stone-headed confidence, but he made it look easy. Maybe he found it easy.”

“I wouldn’t trust anyone who finds ruling easy. I loved my father, but…” She sighed. “Well, he was set in his ways.”

“We are who our fathers made us, one way or another,” Anora murmured.

Lady Aeducan looked up and over her shoulder at Alistair. “Lucky, then, that we are alloyed.”

His nose scrunched. “Alloyed? Isn’t that something to do with metal work?”

“Yes. You bind different metals together to make them stronger or more flexible, or simply brighter.” Aeducan leaned back in her chair and her gaze drifted to the window so she missed the way he looked at her. “On its own Dawnstone is beautiful but brittle. One good blow and it shatters. Nevarite is soft and easy to work but is damaged easily and loses its edge. But combine the two and they form something both lovely and deadly.”

Alistair looked between them. “Which of you is which?”

They shared a glance and smothered laughter, and Anora reached for the letters again. “I think you are the Nevarite, husband dear. And that, I think, is where we should leave the metaphor.”

Three broken people leaning together, weaknesses made strengths in combination. It was a good metaphor.


End file.
